


Cold Blood

by demigender



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racial slurs, Racism, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigender/pseuds/demigender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ymir lives in Trost, an average town with spectacular ignorance. When a mysterious girl moves in, it seems everyone's horizons are about to get a bit wider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Annie

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! My writing's really rusty and I haven't ever posted much of it online, but I really loved Ymir and Christa so much I decided it was time to get a little extra practice in. Again, it's been a while, so this is more testing the waters than anything, and whether it'll be worth continuing will probably be based on the reactions I receive. I'm not expecting much, but I'd really appreciate some response! No pressure. :P  
> Hopefully I did enough of a good job proof-reading it, but if not, please point out whatever mistakes I made!  
> Enjoy!

News breaks that famed rumored lesbian couple, Mikasa Ackerman and Annie Leonhardt, are now famed confirmed lesbian couple on a Sunday afternoon.

Eren Jeager mindlessly tweets some picture of his friend Reiner without bothering to notice the two girls in the background, foreheads touching and looking into each other's eyes like you could find the meaning of life in there. It's got at least a hundred retweets in ten minutes and the news is out: _there are lesbians in Trost High._

~

Trost is a little town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. It's in New York, but a rural part upstate, with cows and grass and trees and some guy named Lorenzo whose family started out as shipyard workers in the Bronx and ended up as cattle herders out by the Catskills. There's an annoying balance between ignorant farmer culture and prejudiced rich kid culture that allows a perfect stew of ignorant hatred to grow, somewhere irritatingly between, “It's all because of the gays!” and “Ugh, poor people.”

It’s for these reasons that Ymir's worried for Mikasa and Annie, it's not enough that they've been called "trannies" or that Mikasa gets "Jap" and "Ching Chong" thrown at her everyday just for her eyes, but now they're gay, too. Like a ticking time bomb, it’s only a matter of time before violence break out, and Ymir would rather not get stuck in the shrapnel.

“Yeah,” says Jean when she explains all this, “I get what you mean.”

Ymir shoves another fork of crappy school food into her mouth and muffles out, “I mean, if you want any more trouble you might as well wear a sign asking for it.”

The rest of the lunch period is silent, Reiner and Bert not saying a word.

~

“Mr. Zacharius, can I go to the bathroom?”

“Sure, Ymir.” She grabs the laminated bathroom pass and heads out, not really looking ahead and bumping into someone when she turns the corner.

“Hey, watch where you’re -- oh, Ymir. It’s just you.” Annie stands in front of Ymir, staring at her through her eyelashes. Annie always did have pretty winter-blue eyes.

The taller girl gives any a long, slow look; completely ice cold, and walks away.

Annie does a double take, blinking rapidly, and turns to follow Ymir. “What was that?” Ymir keeps walking. “Did I do something?”

Her hand is on the handle of the bathroom door when she says, “Whatever, dyke.”

There’s the sound of feet shuffling and Ymir feels Annie’s hands dig into her shoulders and throw her across the hallway into the lockers, striking her across the face the second she steadies herself.  The metal of the lockers slaps Ymir's face harder than Annie's hand which, when concerning Annie, is impressive. Now both her right and left cheeks hurt.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'dyke?'" hisses Annie, an inch from Ymir's face with a fistful of her hoodie.

"Look, you made your decision to be a faggot--"

There's a louder thud when Annie pulls Ymir toward her only to push her back again, pain shooting up Ymir's spine. "Say that one more fucking time and I collect your damn head."

"But it's true. You're fucking that Mikasa girl, right?"

There’s a quick second when Annie hesitates, mouth agape, but it lasts only for a millisecond and she squints hard at Ymir, fire in her eyes. She's grimacing, contempt overriding all of her features. Even her resting bitch face is scary, so this is another level of terrifying.

"I love her," is all Annie says, hard and rough and sharp. "Leave her the fuck alone or I'll rip out your damn tongue."

She pushes Ymir to the ground and walks away, bell ringing for class to end and Ymir scrambles up when she remembers she needs to return her bathroom pass. She doesn't let anyone see the angry red mark on her face, and when her parents point it out she claims it was from roughhousing. After all, she's not a snitch.

~

Their town doesn’t get a lot of excitement, so when a moving truck appears on Ymir’s street, everyone’s curious about the new residents. No one’s obsessed enough to bring it up, but you can see it in a few fleeting moments, like when some of the students talk to each other: distantly, like they’re ready to abandon any relationship for the chance to be friends with the family’s schrodinger child in case they’re existent and cool.

Ymir hasn’t seen much of the family, despite being their neighbor. She’s only seen one person, the father, making her think maybe he’s single. He has dark hair and a skinny body and dresses in business suits, so everyone decides they’re either from up near the Canadian border where people own boats and have more money than they know what to do with, or from downstate, where they’re closer to the city and own companies and have plenty to spend their money on.

The man says says he has only one child and when people ask if they’re a boy or a girl, he changes the subject.

~

The family has been in Trost for a week until the child shows up. God, does she show up,

Ymir didn’t know what flaxen meant until Christa Lenz walked into her third period gym. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, tendrils framing a small, sweet face with little, plump lips and big eyes. She’s short and dressed up in overalls that stop at her fingertips with a printed tee underneath (seriously, how does that even look good?) and black vans, clutching onto one strap of her backpack with two hands.

“Can anyone help me find where locker one-one-eight is?” Her voice is an imperial castle with no foundation, ready to fall at any moment.

It’s enough to shake Ymir out of her trance that she hadn’t noticed she’d gone into and she raises her hand. “Over here.” She’s locker 113, and considering there’s no one in between them this period, they’ll be neighbors for the year.

The girl glides over, smiling at the others staring as she passes by, and Ymir questions maybe she didn’t come from the border or the city at all, but rather a place like London or Paris where everyone’s a romance novel character.

“Hi,” she says to Ymir while pulling a bag of gym clothes out of her backpack, “I’m Christa.”

“Ymir.” She turns coldly back to her own locker, a little confused at herself.

They change in silence, ignoring each other’s presence. Well, almost, Ymir does peek one look. She learns Christa has a little tattoo of a cupcake on her right thigh, just underneath the lace of her underwear.

~

Everyone is in fucking love with Christa Lenz; full blown-out infatuation. She’s from _the_ city, from _Man-fucking-hattan_ , and sings and dances and paints and gardens and knits and gets good grades. Her laugh sounds like wind chimes, her smile is contagious, and the way she shrugs and smirks her lips to one side whenever she doesn’t have an answer gives everyone hearts in their eyes, including the teachers. When she’s brought up in conversation one day, Ymir snorts and asks, “You mean that lame motherfucker?” and the boys at her table freeze and cover their mouths like the lovestruck fools they are.

Despite all her perfection, Christa hasn’t made any friends. She stays by herself in classes, pairs up with the last kid during partner projects, and whenever boys ask her out (daily) she turns them down politely but firmly.

Of course, now everyone just wants to get to know her even more.

~

Lacrosse practice has become increasingly more awkward since Mikasa and Annie were outed. No one would dream of sacking the star players, but they’ve gotten a weird property now, like if you touch them you’re bonded to them and their lesbian ways for life.

It’s frustrating not being able to play as freely as they could, so when people do have to bump into the lesbians, they shove, making them stumble. Sometimes they shove back, sometimes they don’t, but at least they’re staying in their place, more or less.

~

“Ymir,” says Mikasa in the locker room, “can you hand me my bag?”

Ymir’s between the girl and the backpack, and she jolts when she hears her name. The request is simple enough, something she’d have done without thinking about it, usually. Usually. She straightens up from rummaging in her locker for her deodorant.

Annie left early to speak to Coach Ral.

“No.” Ymir doesn’t even look at her teammate.

“...what, are you paralyzed? Give me my bag.”

No response.

“Ymir,” Mikasa raises her voice, and a few girls turn their heads, “give me my fucking bag.”

“Can’t. I’m, uh, too tired to lean over.” There’s a few snickers and Ymir allows herself to smirk.

Mikasa makes a strained noise, the muscles in her face pulling taut. “Ymir, I can’t believe you’re doing this. Give me my bag, just fucking give it to me. Don’t make this a big deal.”

Here, Ymir slams her locker closed, just for dramatic flair, and says, “You know, you’re the one that made this a big deal.”

“How? T-that I put my bag over there?” Her clenched fists and sneer suggests she’s just irritated, but the quiver of her bottom lip says something completely different, and Ymir finds sadistic pleasure in that.

“You know how. _Faggot_.” Ymir’s voice is cold, but the low howls of their teammates are heated.

Mikasa bunches up like she’s going to throw a punch, and Ymir starts regretting everything she’s said and silently prays to God, _dear Lord, please give me the strength to survive this spectacular ass-whooping I am about to endure, please Lord, take pity on a lost, young soul_ , but Mikasa’s fists drop and she just huffs, slamming her own locker shut and stepping over and around the bench to pick up her backpack before hurrying off without a word.

Ymir stares after her for a few seconds, memory of black hair whipping around the corner looping over and over until her teammate’s low whistle pulls her out. Her attention is redirected to her locker and she ignores the whispers, letting herself feel like she’s won some kind of personal victory.

She’s reacquainted with the strength of the lockers minutes later when she feels a rough push on her back, her open locker door especially piercing in her abdomen.

Annie -- she should have known -- bellows over her while she’s on the floor, again, trying to regain the wind that’s been knocked out of her. “You shameful little cunt! You fucking monster! I told you to leave her alone, fuck you, you heartless bitch!” She kicks and Ymir wheezes. “Touch her again, speak to her, look at her, think about her in that fucked up mind of yours one more time and you see what fucking happens! She’s got a scholarship and a home that prevents her from swinging a punch, but unlucky for you,” she pauses to pull Ymir up by her collar, “I’ve got no self-worth and nothing to lose,” she spits.

She leaves Ymir on the floor again, stomping out.

~

_Not a snitch_ , Ymir reminds herself when she passes Coach Ral on her way out.

“Ymir!” she cries, taking her face into both her hands, “What happened?”

She laughs nervously, aware of the nasty shriner she’s got. “I knew you were going to worry, Coach, but don’t! Braus and I were messing around, just goofing off, and when I was drinking for the water fountain she pushed my head down. But you know Braus, always too forceful.”

“...so the faucet went into your eye?” Ymir nods and shrugs like _,_ _whatever_. Coach sighs. “Thank God. I thought you girls got into a fight, I heard some shouting. Anyway, go to the nurse and get her to disinfect your eye.”

She does.

~

Jean slams his tray down at lunch the next day, a big, stupid grin on his face. “Fuck, Ymir. I can’t believe you got fucking owned by Annie.”

She pouts unintentionally and hides her face. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Actually, I can, that girl is a _beast_.”

“I said ‘ _shut up_.’”

“What,” he says, still grinning like a hyena while he slides his legs between the table and the bench, “don’t I have a right to free speech?”

“Sounds more like interrogation,” she mumbles.

“Sounds like you’re a sore loser.”

Ymir just hunches her shoulders even more, which is her strangely cat-like way of saying she doesn’t want to be teased. Sighing, Jean puts his hand on her back, and she glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Well,” he continues, “I’m glad you stood for your opinion. They’re...disgusting.” He hesitates.

Slowly, Ymir straightens up and nods. “Thanks. I don’t know. I feel kinda shitty but,” she looks down at her hands and mumbles the rest, “I had to do it.”

Jean nods and starts stabbing at his pasta. Ymir takes this as a sign to keep going.

“I mean...there’s just something weird about it.” Jean’s raised eyebrows shows Ymir misinterpreted his silence, but she keep speaking. “I mean, why didn’t they just make up some lie? Why not just say they were messing around and Eren just happened to snap a really unlucky shot?”

Jean shrugs and mumbles, “I guess that could’ve worked.” He is going to fucking _town_ on that pasta, and Ymir is sure he’s not listening.

There’s still more she wants to say, though. “Plus, Annie’s fantastic at lacrosse. _Fantastic_.” She looks at Jean with bug eyes and repeats, “You hear me? _Fan-fucking-tastic_.” He rolls his eyes and nods. “I know for a fact that she’s been scouted and has an athletic scholarship with NYU, so what did she mean that she has nothing to lose?”

“Maybe her hair, isn’t that what lesbians do?” He laughs at his joke.

She shoves him. “I’m serious, man. It makes no goddamn sense.”

~

Annie and Mikasa aren’t Ymir’s closest friends, but they are her oldest. Mikasa was the only other person in Ymir’s third-grade class that wasn’t white, and Mikasa already knew Annie because the two were the only girls (other than Ymir, they would soon learn) that liked to fight. The three of them used to beat each other up and smile even with blood on their teeth and it wasn’t long before they knew everything about each other, like a weird preteen fight club. They weren’t first choices when it came to things like relationship advice and midnight phone calls, but they were solid back-ups, dependable, never judged or teased. They were probably the only friends Ymir ever had that came with no drama or paranoia.

Of course, they aren’t close anymore, but all regimes fall and whatever.

 


	2. Reiner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir deals with father figures and a blonde whose personality changes with the wind.

Ymir’s toes cringe the second they touch her wood floors and she gropes around her bed for the socks that must have managed to slip off during the night. Once they’re on, she pads off and does her business, getting ready for the school day before eventually slinking her way down the stairs.

There’s noise coming from the kitchen, which means that her father must be up, and something cooking, so it must be a good day for him. She ticks this all of like a checklist in her head; she has mental and physical health checked, so next comes his mood. If he’s slumped over the table she should just leave as quickly as possible, and if he’s sitting up and checking the news, he’s fine.

“Hey dad,” she says when enters, keeping on hand on the edge of the archway to swing herself in, “you got work today?”

His bulky body is hunched over the stove, making eggs, which means Ymir can’t be sure of what’s about to come next. “Yeah, with the Springers.”

Ymir takes a seat at the kitchen table, careful not to knock over any of the many stacks of paper on it. She’s sworn to herself a hundred times she’ll sort them out, but it seems she’ll graduate before that ever happens. “You’re not still in a fight with their dad?”

He sighs. “Money is money, Ymir. Mr. Springer and I are the only ones that can work the machines, and he’s out sick. They employ two-hundred people, I’m not letting them go a day without pay.” He puts the eggs on plates and hands one to Ymir.

Ymir hums and puts a forkful of eggs in her mouth. “I can always help out, you know. I’m strong,” she muffles out through the food.

“Ymir.” Crap, dad voice, and Ymir dry-swallows what’s in her mouth. “We need to talk.”

“...what did I do?”

He fumbles in his back pocket and fishes out an envelope with the words “TROST SCHOOL DISTRICT” on it, waving it toward Ymir and she finds she’s praying again.

“It’s your progress report.”

It’s silent in the kitchen for a while, just the rest of the grease sizzling on the pan making any sort of noise. Ymir’s been through this before, but it doesn’t mean that she still doesn’t want the ground to swallow her up, and all those failed tests and skipped classes that she’s pushed to the back of her mind are popping back up like awful reminders of how stupid she can be.

The frog in her throat prevents her from saying much, but she pushes out, “Dad-”

“Forty to fifty in English? Fifty to sixty in Math? You’re good at Math!” His voice is sharp, accusatory, like she’s killed someone, and considering Ymir’s not-so-bright future, she might as well have.

“Look-”

“And then you talk about working? Giving yourself more to do? You can barely fucking handle school!”

Ymir cringes at the curse and struggles to make eye contact. Her dad’s a big man, and during times like these Ymir thinks he could step on her. “I can explain-”

“You even came home with bruises all over your body, you said it was roughhousing, but I don’t believe you for shit anymore.”

“I told you the truth, if I got into a fight I’d tell you!”  
“Yeah, I fucking bet. You’re probably getting into fights everyday, I can’t even trust you anymore.”

For whatever reason, even if Ymir did lie, that flips a switch inside her. “I’m your fucking daughter.”

“Unfortunately.”

The roar of the bus announces itself and Ymir doesn’t have the mental capacity to even give her father a cold look, just to look as hurt as she felt.

~

Ymir spends most of the day relatively silent, not in the mood. She ignores Sasha in English, Jean in Spanish, and especially Eren in Math, but that’s just how it’s been since her incident with Annie and Mikasa. Chemistry looms before her, with the promise of one thing: highly empathetic and worryingly dad-like _Reiner_.

Like clockwork, he corners her while they’re working on late work by looming over her desk like a tree ready to fall. He’s big shoulders and buzzcut, a gentle giant that Ymir considers a necessary constant.

“Hi, Reiner,” Ymir drones.

“What’s wrong?” At least he’s blunt.

Ymir doesn’t bother to look up. “Did you hear about Palestine? Fucking awful.”

He sighs. “You’re the poster child for using humor to cover up your feelings, so don’t pull that crap on me.” He sits down at the vacant seat next to her and leans over. “So, be honest.”

She shrugs. “It’s whatever, man.”

Reiner’s mouth flattens into a single line and he studies Ymir. She’s worse than usual. He puts his hand on Ymir’s knee and whispers gently, “Is it Annie?”

“What -- man, fuck you!” The words are mean, but her face betrays herself. She throws his hand off and Reiner laughs.

“I mean, if it is, you should count yourself lucky. If Mikasa got on your ass she would’ve used your asscrack as a reference point on where to cleave the rest of you.” He mimes it out, bringing one hand down onto his other perpendicularly.

Ymir groans and covers her face with her hands. “Why is everyone so obsessed with that fight?”

“This place isn’t all that exciting, if you haven’t noticed. We don’t get a lot of fights.”

“Jean and Eren fight all the time!”

Reiner scoffs and sits back. “That doesn’t count and you know it. Sasha uses their fights to help track her period.”

That gets a chuckle out of Ymir and she uncovers her face, slowly, tugging on her face so her features warp. “Just...it’s no big deal, just some shit with my dad, whatever.” She slaps her hands onto her desk.

“Did you guys fight again?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “I tell you way too much.”

“I’m taking that as a yes. Your fights are getting more frequent, do you wanna talk about it?”

“ _No._ ”

“Ooh, touchy Ymir, haven’t seen you in a while.” Ymir starts to hunch her shoulders and Reiner knows he’s starting to lose her. “Hey, hey, don’t be like that. Do you wanna hang out after school? I know it’s a long drive, but there’s a new fro-yo place in the mall…!”

A smile tugs at the corners of Ymir’s lips, and she knows her cold exterior is crumbling with the seconds. “Fuck, Reiner, you got me. You got me so bad.”

Reiner punches the air, a big, dopey grin spreading across his face. “Ha! You know you can’t resist my charm, Ymir. Wait for me in the lobby, alright?”

~

They’re passing an open area with some benches and tables when Ymir nods over at it for the two of them to sit down. They do, across from each other, with the fro-yo in between.

Reiner hums inquisitively and Ymir gives a big enough sigh, it looks like she’s collapsed. There’s so much to say, all of it building up, and she wants to tell this sentient wall of muscle everything because he’s such a good person, better than Ymir could ever be, starting from how fucked up it is that she never comes to school on 9/11 out of _fear_ to how her dad treats her like a project to why she can’t figure out why she doesn’t feel emotion as strongly as she used to. All these things, that could ruin her image, her reputation, make her seem so weak and fragile that she never tells a single soul what’s going on. Finally, there’s a chance for her to get it all of her chest and clear up that dead weight in her lungs that has been weighing her down for so long, so, she settles for the thing closest to the surface.

“Okay. Well, it’s just so weird. All of it.”

“The Annie thing?”

Ymir nods. “I mean, first of all, I’ve known her since literally third grade, so wouldn’t I have noticed if she was such a lesbian? I mean, she even agreed with me when I said I didn’t like gays.” Reiner rolls his eyes and Ymir notices he’s not making direct eye contact, but she ignores it. “And, why didn’t Mikasa defend herself? It’s weird for her to just stand by and let someone do the dirty work for her.”

Reiner shrugs. “She’s gotten into so much trouble defending Eren and Armin that if she pulls anything else, she risks not just her own future, but Eren’s too.”

Ymir snorts. “What a tiger mom.” Reiner shoots her a look and Ymir mumbles out a sorry.

“Whatever.”

It’s quiet for a while until Ymir clears her throat and continues. “Plus, Annie said things like she’s got nothing to lose, which, you know, is beyond false. She may be a lesbian, but she kicks ass at lacrosse and she’s going to NYU.”

At this, Reiner makes eye contact again, eyebrows furrowing, his bored look turning into one of concern. “You didn’t hear?”

Ymir blinks. “What?”

Reiner shifts around in his seat, looking around before leaning forward to speak in a hushed whisper. “Annie’s parents aren’t letting her go.”

“ _What?_ ”

“They wanted her to stay and take over the family’s business ever since her brother got brain damage.”

“I thought her cousin was going to?”

Reiners shakes his head sadly and plays with the cuff of his letterman. “That was the agreement...until Mr. Kirschtein told Mr. Leonhardt that Annie’s gay. NYU only gave her half of a scholarship, so her parents are refusing to pay the other half.”

Ymir feels like someone’s punched her in the chest. “No way. She was so looking forward to NYU…”

All that time studying, working her ass off to cram facts into a mind that wouldn’t accept it, practicing every day for hours to help build some sort of skill that could come even close to Mikasa’s, working against fatigue and bouts of depression and even _fucking dyslexia_ to become the best athlete and student she could just so she could get out of this crap town. All of it, lost. Because she wants to go bumper-to-bumper.

Ymir’s too lost in thought to notice that Reiner’s bellowed a “Hey!” to someone behind her until a ringing voice gives a greeting in reply right next to Ymir.

Startled, Ymir looks up. Blond hair, baby blue eyes, some outfit that shouldn’t make sense but it _does_. Fuck.

“Ymir, you know Christa, right?”

Ymir offers a half-assed smile to the smaller girl. “Gym class?”

“Yep!” Oh, _fuck_ that cute voice. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“No, no! Nothing at all..,” Ymir says sardonically and Reiner shoots her another look. He’s on full dad mode today.

“Oh. That’s...good. Um. Anyway, it’s good to see you, Reiner!”

“Wait,” Ymir says, “how do you two know each other?”

“Eren introduced us,” Reiner says.

“And Christa and Eren?”

Christa smiles at Ymir and says sweetly, “Art class!”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence until Reiner stands up and suggests he and Ymir show Christa around and Ymir realizes there’s no choice, so she stands up too and follows them.

~

“So, why did you move, Christa?” asks Reiner. Ymir has been third-wheeling for at least a good half-hour, hands shoved in pockets, eyes following them like a lion stalking prey, and she’s getting fed up. These blonds get along so well, she swears that if she just disappeared they wouldn’t notice.

“My father got a job opportunity up here with a tax agency. It took some time for the move to go smoothly, so that’s why I came into school during November.”

 _Sounds plausible_ , thinks Ymir, _or you’re here to bewitch this entire fucking town and take us all as sacrifice to whatever demon you exchange souls with for that hair._

“You like it up here?”

Christa gives a breathy little laugh. “Honestly, no? I hope I get to return to the city soon. No offense, I’m sure the quiet life suits lots of people, but I like a little bit of adventure.”

Ymir doesn’t want to but somehow she still gives the command for herself to scoff. It’s too late for her to stop herself when she feels both pairs of eyes on her, so, in a rush of unjustified anger, she continues, “What kind of adventures does a little rich blonde girl like you get into?”

A darkness passes over Christa’s face without warning, a mischievous glint in her eye, and she says in a husky voice, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ymir freezes for a second, stunned, probably looking like a bit of a fool. Holy crap. A thousands thoughts run themselves through Ymir’s mind until static takes over, everything within her short-circuiting. Something deep in her abdomen she hasn’t felt move in ages tightens itself.

Reiner doesn’t seem as affected. He just laughs, throwing back his head in that over-eager manner Ymir makes fun of him for. “‘She may be but little, but she is fierce.’”

“You read Shakespeare, Reiner?” asks Christa, like she _didn’t_ just shock Ymir into sweaty palms and a hazy mind that she’s still shaking herself out from.

“Just for school.” His phone buzzes then and he takes a second to pull it out and read it before his face falls into an expression of pure regret. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so late. Shit. Ymir, I don’t think I can drive you back, Christa, do you--?”

She raises a manicured hand up to stop him, smiling. Always smiling. “Don’t worry, I got it. I mean, as long as it’s fine with you Ymir.”

She pinches herself to come back to full clarity and she mumbles, “I-I guess?”

~

Christa has a Prius (no surprise there) with a little teddy bear hanging from the rearview mirror. It’s still got that new car smell and Ymir feels like she’s too dirty to step in, but she realizes that’s ridiculous before she can hesitate at all and quickly makes herself at home.

Christa puts Ymir’s address into her phone (a nifty smartphone Ymir could imagine Armin drooling over) and she starts driving rather cautiously -- it’s evident this isn’t something she’s done often.

“Have you ever been down to the city, Ymir?” Christa asks, and Ymir is thankful for any type of conversation.

“Not often. It’s an hours-long drive. Just for concerts and games.”

“Who did you see?”

“Uh, the concerts or the games?”

“Pick your favorite.”

“Well, I liked the Yankees back then, so I went to a couple games. I wish I hadn’t, I’m not too into baseball anymore.”

“Oh?” Ymir wishes Christa would pay more attention to the interstate she’s about to merge onto.

“Well, yeah. I like lacrosse, obviously, and basketball--”

The car brakes so quickly Ymir can feel her belt scrape against the part of her chest left unexposed and knows it’s going to leave a mark. “ _Fuck_ , Christa, I swear to God I’m teaching you how to drive like you’re not a hundred-year-old blind dog.” Ymir looks in front to see a squirrel just barely managing to cross the road. Apparently, Christa is unbelievably predictable or woefully not so.

She chuckles nervously. “Sorry. We don’t drive a lot in the city.” Obviously. “But, basketball? That’s awesome, I live off WNBA.”

“Wait -- really?”

The statement is genuine enough, but Christa still groans and slaps her hands on the wheel, frustrated. “Why is everyone so surprised when they find out I know about sports? I said the world ‘layover’ to this guy once and I thought he was going to piss his pants.”

She curses too? “Well...you’re just…so...”

“Blonde, little, sheltered?”

“...cute?”

Christa glares at Ymir sideways and the taller girl feels a dread in the pit of her stomach that she’s said something horribly, terribly wrong and the little blonde’s about to reach over and scratch her eyeballs out but, inexplicably, randomly, without explanation, a giggle bubbles itself out of Christa.

“Or that too.”

~

“ _Wouldn’t you like to know?_ ”

Ymir wakes up from her dream, panting, the image of Christa burned into her after-image. The familiar image of her room presents itself and she blinks rapidly to wipe her mind clean.

Those pink lips mouthing those black words have been haunting her.

~

The next time Ymir sees Christa is in gym, and the freckled girl has brought a new shirt to change into since the other one was beginning to smell a bit too much even for Ymir’s taste. The new shirt is some old mess, the first thing Ymir found when she stuck her hand into her drawer.

“Ymir,” says Christa’s quiet voice and Ymir glances at her from her periphery, “is that _the Titans_ on your shirt?"

Ymir takes a peek at her chest and realizes she's chosen the one shirt of the one movie that makes her put all her walls down. "Wait. You like _the Titans_?"

~

Ymir found _the Titans_ online, recommended by some underground horror blog. It's got lots of gore and plotless violence, but as a precocious thirteen-year-old who knew what she wanted, it was the perfect movie. In a week, she made her dad order some kind of merchandise and has probably watched it countless times. She's never watched it with anybody, though.

~

She’s not sure how it happened, but that Saturday Ymir finds herself with Christa in her living room that Saturday, with her well-loved copy of _the Titans_ already watched and Christa’s suggestion, _Audition_ , waiting to be played.

Christa tucks a leg underneath her and sits on the couch beside Ymir, the bag of candy she brought from home in her hands and _Audition_ in the DVD player. “You ready to fucking implode?” It took Ymir a few days of their newfound friendship to get used to Christa’s impressive sailor mouth, but it still takes her by surprise sometimes.

“Sorry, who cried at _Iron Giant_?”

Christa scoffs and pushes Ymir so she almost falls backward onto her couch. “When I was a kid! As if you didn’t.”

“Classified information,” replies Ymir matter-of-factly, reaching out to steal a kit-kat and Christa slaps her hand away.

“Maybe when you’re not a shithead you can have one.”

Ymir laughs. “Fine, keep them you greedy bitch.”

~

Ymir has always had really vivid, straightforward dreams. Just like herself, her dreams don’t fuck around and get to the point. She has dreams about failing her favorite classes, about having fights with friends she no longer wants to speak to, about winning competitions and watching her opponents cry.

But not ones where Christa kisses the insides of Ymir’s thighs, looking up at her through her eyelashes.

Not ones where she hears herself pant and ask in a breathy voice, “What are you going to do?”

Not ones where Christa smirks and responds with, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly SOOO overwhelmed by the amount of good responses the first chapter got!! You're all so nice!!! AHH!!! WOW!!!!!! THANK YOU!!!!!  
> I feel like I squeezed this chapter out. Sorry if it seems it's of any less quality than the first, I was a little bit uninspired (not enough lesbians) so it was like chewing an over-cooked steak and I couldn't be bothered to edit it anymore than I did. Plus, I couldn't fit in "fro-yolo" in anywhere without ruining the tone so you can understand why I might have been a little disgruntled.  
> I'm starting school in a week so I won't be able to update as quickly as I did this time! Part of the reason why I'm posting now is so I don't keep writing this when I should be working on the last of my summerwork. Really sorry!  
> PS -- Audition is totally a very really movie, it's a Japanese horror movie with more gore than anyone could care for that I thought would help show what kind of taste I saw Ymir and Christa having since a shitty reference from the source material woudln't be as helpful. I watched it (mostly through my fingers or I just listened to the screams while I busied myself on my phone) a year or so ago and I have not been spooked by a horror movie ever since. It CHANGED me. I am a NEW PERSON. Never show this to a thirteen year old. NEVER. What kind of preteen WERE you, Ymir. Ridiculous.


	3. Connie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repulse.  
> (warning for some metaphorical and literal body horror. it's not too bad, but if any mention of that kinda stuff disturbs you, tread lightly!)

“Hey, Ymir.”

Ymir yelps and basically jumps onto the top of the lockers when she hears Christa’s voice, looking down in horror to see her innocent face. Round face, with big eyes and that one lock of hair between them. If there was ever an image of innocent terror, Christa Lenz was probably it, waiting before Ymir in a rural high school like an angel ready to fall.

Ymir covers her heart with her hand, panting (and overacting) a little. “Christa, you scared the crap out of me.”

Instead of responding, Christa tightens her jaw and tilts her head just a little. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…” She squints and studies Ymir’s face and the taller girl braces herself for what’s to come. “Ymir, you don’t look so good.”

Ymir appreciates the subtlety, she knows she looks awful, she practically thought she saw Bloody Mary in the mirror this morning before she realized it was just her reflection. Her eyes are puffy and red from sleep deprivation, with heavy bags underneath them; her hair’s a rat’s nest, lips chapped, mouth set in a permanent frown, and she’s starting to break out along her hairline. The rest of her is awful too, she stands slouched and unconfident in wrinkly clothes, and she isn’t quite sure what the stain on her sweater is, nor does she care. “Didn’t get any sleep.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Ymir grunts. “Um. Anyway, we only have a few minutes left before classes start, but I just wanted to ask you if we’re still on?”

“For what?” Ymir knows she’s being the biggest asshole in the world, but she can’t help it. The farther away Christa is, the safer Ymir is. Is that sadistic or masochistic?

“You know, about driving…? You said during movie night you were going to come over and teach me? My dad’s too busy to do it…” Her eyebrows are furrowed and her lips puckered, somewhere between hurt and irritated. A big punch to her stomach labeled guilt hits Ymir, and she feels guilty, so guilty, but not as guilty as she is repulsed. Not at Christa personally, but at Christa being there, being a temptation. At Christa existing as something Ymir can’t control that chips at her foundation and plants bombs at her weakest points. There’s no reason to be cold, to be so stand-offish, but at the same time, there’s all the reason in the world. Ymir wants to run, disappear, but in the end she’s too true to her word.

She scrambles for anything that could be considered cool or confident, a hand in her jacket, a foot propped on her locker, anything besides the raising alarm within her, and says, “Oh, yeah. When was that?”

“Today, Ymir. You were going to come home on the bus with me. You know, you’re acting really weird, did I do anything?”

Ymir stammers, guilt starting to crawl its way up her throat and threatening to come out as either words or vomit and Ymir chooses the former. “N-no. Sorry. Sleep deprivation. Sorry. I’ll see you, okay?”

Christa stares for a moment longer, making some kind of decision, before she nods swiftly and pivots on her heel to walk away. Ymir’s heart is beating like she’s just ran a race and she just wants to sit for a while and regain her foundation, but the bell rings and it seems that won’t be the case.

~

Ymir drives both herself and Christa in Christa’s Prius to an old parking lot, with a lot of space and not a lot of other cars and pedestrians. When she was fifteen, her father taught her how to drive here, and for a kid who didn’t know much, it was perfect, but maybe an underestimate for a seventeen-year-old who already managed to get her license. She prays Christa is better than to warrant this level of caution, but she can’t be too safe.

There’s an awkward silence, or maybe Ymir is just perceiving it to be so. In a desperate attempt at conversation she asks, “When did you get your license?”

“Ah,” Christa muses, “about a year ago. I took a class over summer, but the roads in a city are a lot different…”

Ymir hums so she doesn’t scoff. "Apparently. Alright, so is there anything you want to start with?"

Christa shrugs. "You're the expert, what do you suggest?"

Control. Ymir feels herself returning to normal. "Well, you turn like a getaway driver, so we'll start with that." Christa tsks at Ymir’s teasing but she complies anyway and shifts the car into drive.

"So, go to the end of here, and try to turn as smoothly as you can."

"That sounds easy enough! I think you're underestimating me, Ymir."

Ymir stammers, terrified that anytime she does something questionable Christa will _find out_ with all the swiftness of a detective and mercy of a Salem judge.

"Better safe than sorry,” she manages out. Christa grins cheekily and sticks her tongue out at Ymir and the taller girl can feel some of the ice melt from around her heart despite herself.

They drive for a while, Ymir gently taking Christa through turns and parking, her patience and quiet words are a surprise to the both of them. Words that match Christa’s tinkling laugh, the color of the sky, the vegetation that peeps through cracks in the concrete. They talk about driving, about school, about themselves. Christa has commitment issues, so does Ymir; Christa wants to backpack in Europe, so does Ymir; Christa’s tone of voice turns more melancholy when parents are mentioned and so does Ymir’s. They shouldn’t click, they shouldn’t fit together and mirror each other so well, but they do, in a way that is disconcerting and comforting and as cyclical of good and bad chasing each other like the sun and the moon. Ymir has never felt more at peace, more meditative, than she does now giving soft commands of turn left, parallel park there, don’t pull up on the gas and anticipate the turn. Christa really isn’t awful, just rusty, and it comes back quickly enough.

“Yeah, you’re not bad. You just needed some practice that wasn’t on the road.” Compliments, too. Ymir is really out-doing herself.

“Thanks. I just get really anxious on the road.” Christa lets out a nervous laugh and flexes her hands on the wheel. “Do...you want to go anywhere?”

“Like where?”

“Well, we can go to a drive-thru and I can get the both of us something.”

Ymir smiles and holds up one hand. “It’s fine, I’m not that hungry.”

Christa brakes and gives Ymir a deadpan look. “Ymir, you know I really respect you, but you eat like you haven’t eaten in years.”

“No, I don’t!”

Another laugh, more genuine this time, and Christa shakes her head. “Fine, just months then.”

“Oh, come on. Have you met Sasha Braus?”

“Yeah, and then she took my sandwich, thanks.”

“That’ll teach you.”

Christa reaches out to pinch Ymir in her side. “What, to tell the truth?”

In those few moments, Ymir had been able to almost forget about all her worries completely, but that one instant of physical contact brings her back and she says coldly, “Well, maybe you’re right.”

She turns her head to look out the window and Christa notices the silence, the sudden despondency, the weird rift that’s managing to tear between them. Her own grin falls slowly with the mood in the car.

“Ymir, are you alright?”

“What? I’m fine.” Her hands start to sweat.

“Hey, Ymir…look at me?”

She takes in a deep breath and turns slowly to face Christa. Her eyes are pleading, shoulders a little hunched in sadness, and Ymir hopes she isn’t acting as a mirror.

“Ymir, if it means anything...I want you to know I really do respect you. And care about you.” Ymir just stares, unblinking. “W-what I mean is you were the first person I met that felt like home and you’ve made this all a little bit easier. And, just generally, you’re a really great person.

More silence, and Ymir tries to think of something to say. She racks her brain, but she can’t concentrate, not in the slightest; Christa’s hair looks incredibly soft and it’s hypnotizing. There’s some afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the car and it gives her hair an outline that looks like a halo (which only makes Ymir think of how fitting that imagery is) and all these different colors and tones that remind Ymir of kaleidoscopes and stained glass and liquid gold; like if Ymir just reached out and ran her fingers through it, her hand would come out younger as if it just took a dip in the Fountain of Youth. It’s all so impossibly tempting, and she’s so close, and she’s stressed and needs comfort anyway--

Christa makes a strained noise when the silence gets to be too much and she sputters to say, “I mean, you’re just really nice, at least to me, and you seem like a good person.”

Ymir snaps to it and feels her face get warmer. “I think you’re being a little generous.”

Christa switches from sheepish to concerned, reaching out to put a hand on Ymir’s shoulder. “I’m serious! I don’t know how you do it. You’re honestly really amazing.”

Her heart beats faster and Ymir wants to crack some joke about what a mess she is because, honestly, she really is a mess but she can’t get much past her lips other than, “What?”

“Yeah. You’re super athletic and funny and you’re good at, like, _adult_ stuff, you know? You act immature but you really are responsible and you get shit _done_. You go to school, you do sports, you work, and you have a social life and friends that love you because they know beyond that hard exterior you care a lot and you’re just easy to be around and, I don’t know, you may be fire but that doesn’t just mean you’re an inferno.”

Ymir’s limbs feel weird and she’s glad she’s sitting. Her mouth flaps open and closed like a fish, at a loss for words, and a blush tinges Christa’s cheeks when she realizes what she’s said and she turns her head away.

“Sorry. That was really weird. I...didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“It’s okay.”

There. She said something. Ymir waits.

“...I’m just glad you’re my friend, is all.”

~

Ymir doesn’t sleep. Ymir has never slept. The clocks goes to 11:31, 12:56, 2:06, 3:24, 5:19, 6:00 and it’s time for school and she hasn’t slept and there’s bags under her eyes again, maybe she can get those copyrighted, and her heart feels like it’s in a vice. When she was younger she found out that chickens still walk around after their head has been cut off and sing ugly swan songs except they’re already dead, so are chicken songs a thing? and Ymir wants to let everything rush out of her but even to herself her image is too important so she bottles it up and sends it to sea and hopes someone with a strong gaze and sharp tongue will tell her she’s disgusting and wrong.

She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, she’s walking on stilts made of pipe cleaners and something’s been stuck in her throat for days and her eyes are burning, her eyes are pouring out of her sockets and she hasn’t slept or thought, she can’t think, every time she thinks she thinks of Christa and she knows she shouldn’t have agreed to go to that parking lot when the sun was warm and so was Christa and sometimes when Christa laughs she covers her mouth with her hand like she’s apologizing for laughing and her eyebrows turn up and there’s faint little worry lines on her forehead and Ymir thinks those worry lines are more beautiful than the birth of a star and more tragic than the death of an empire and fit her better than a tiara. Ymir feels like she’s been stuffed and she’s hyper-aware of her limbs and how she struggles to move them especially when she’s in front of friends and everything else feels like it’s been moved one inch to the right, it’s the same world but everything is different and dark and confusing. It’s 6:01 and Ymir is gay.

~

“YUH-MIR,” and Ymir knows it’s Connie who’s calling her all the way from down the empty hall after field hockey practice.

“Ee-mir,” she corrects without looking up and barely budging when the little dude basically throws himself against Ymir in a one-armed hug and then immediately reeling back in one fluid motion.

He basically slams himself against the wall when she says, “Hey, you’re into horror stuff, right?”

She sighs and says in an accented voice, “I have been known to dabble.” It’s in a tired voice, but Connie has a contagious energy she’s channeling from.

“Well,” he holds out the “L” sound for a few seconds, “my aunt is getting married and her wedding is the weekend before Christmas and my parents said if I can find her the perfect gift I can throw a Christmas party while they’re away. My aunt’s really into horror so I need your skill, your knowledge, your - dare I say it? - _expertise_. Can you help me?” Connie jumps into a game show host-like stance, legs spread apart and arms out wide.

Ymir barely blinks. “You want me to help you pick a gift?”

“Nah, nah, I already got it. Check it.” He swings his backpack around to his front and rummages around inside until he pulls out a plexiglass tube with metal ends holding some cloudy yellow liquid and _oh my God_ \--

“Is that a fucking _hand_? Connie, _what the actual fuck_?” Ymir’s voice is high-pitched, her jaw drops and it would be funny how comical her face looked if she wasn’t staring at a hand.

He chuckles. “Yep, got this sweet beauty for two-hundred dollars from Zoe. You know how they still got connections down at the forensics department?” Ymir is too busy staring in _absolute fucking horror_ at this _very real_ and _very severed_   hand to answer so Connie takes it upon himself to continue. “The NYPD copped this from a murder victim found in the backwoods of Locust Grove. And, you gotta see this--” He shakes the tube a couple times so the palm of the hand faces Ymir, fingertips resting on the glass and she gags, “--he totally was in a gang.” There’s a little tattoo of two wings overlapping each other and Ymir only grimaces more.

“Connie, what the fuck.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Scouts versus the MP, worse than Blood versus Crip, huh?”

“Connie what the fuck. What the fuck. How is this even fucking legal. What. WHAT.”

“Well, technically,” Ymir rolls her eyes, “it’s not.” He hurriedly puts the tube of death back into his backpack and swings it back like it’s nothing. “Zoe owed me a favor, though, so now we’re even.”

“What kind of fucking favor-”

“The good kind. Anyway, I just need you to come after school and help me out with the second part.”

The gears in Ymir’s head start turning in the wrong direction and she shouts, “I AM NOT HELPING YOU FIND A FOOT.”

~

It wasn’t helping him find a foot.

Ymir’s got Connie’s laptop on one leg as she scrolls through torrent sites, trying to find downloads of horror movies, from the excellent to the so-bad-it’s-good. She doesn’t add _the Titans_ , but it’s still pretty kickass if she does say so herself. There’s a small pile of DVDs on either side of her, a couple with movies already burned on them and twenty or so more for Connie to finish once Ymir’s got all the movies downloaded.

“A hand. Did you talk to your parents about it, at least? A fucking hand.”

Connie laughs. “Who do you think paid the two-hundred dollars? I’m broke as fuck, but thank God my parents are swimming in dough like Scrooge McDuck.”

“A hand.”

Connie picks the tube up and smiles at it lovingly. “I think I’ll call her Megan.”

“Wow.”

“Hey, Ymir, you’re working pretty hard. Want me to lend you--”

“Say it and I shove that hand up your fucking asshole.”

He holds his hands (all three of them, fuck him) up in surrender and places the tube back down on his desk. He crawls off his bed to join Ymir on the floor so he can stare at the screen while she works.

“You almost done?”

“I’m trying to find this old thriller...I’ve pretty much made up a playlist and if I can find it, it’ll make a perfect transition between the shitty movies and the good ones.”

Connie places a hand on his heart. “Such dedication.”

Ymir scoffs and changes the subject. “Why didn’t your aunt just have her wedding on Halloween if she loves creepy stuff so much?”

“It’s the anniversary of when her and her fiancée met.”

“Gross, remind me to never get married.”

Connie ignores her. “Honestly, this is probably the only wedding I’m bummed about missing. My aunt’s the coolest lady I know, I mean, she never went down the Niagara Falls in a barrel but she knew a guy who did, you feel me? She just vibes so well with everyone so she knows so many cool people.”

“You sound like a hippie.”

Her words are in one ear and out the other. “Anyway, yeah, I already saw some of the pictures of what they’re planning. Their color scheme is so cool, lots of black and gold, and both of their dresses-”

“Dresses? Like, plural?”

“Well, they were thinking about putting one in a tux but neither of them could decide who would wear it so they just got matching dresses.”

Ymir blinks. “The man’s supposed to wear the tux..?”

Connie laughs like Ymir’s just told a joke and pulls a face. “Can’t do that when you’re both women,” he says in a goofy voice but just Ymir stares blankly at Connie and his smile falls. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“They’re lesbians?”

“Yeah?”

Ymir clears her throat and returns back to the laptop, silent, and Connie stares at her in confusion. “I thought you weren’t homophobic anymore?”

Ymir keeps her eyes on the screen but can feel every part of her body getting warmer. “Hmm?”

“You hang out with Christa, so I thought that you were cool with that stuff.”

She freezes. “Why would you assume that?”

He shrugs. “Christa’s pretty cool, she talks about sexuality and gender and stuff, and she’s really educated and fun to listen to. She doesn’t mention that stuff to you? I can’t get her to shut up about it…”

Ymir’s hands clench and unclench and she can feel the tension palpable in the air and Connie’s eyes on her. In an instant, any worry about that last movie wipes itself from her mind and she hurriedly places the laptop on the floor and stands up.

“Hey-!”

“Sorry, I forgot. My dad needs me to do something and he’ll have my head if I don’t make it back in time. The last movie’s name is in the search box, maybe you can find it yourself.

“Ymir--” She’s already slipping on her jacket and in an instant, she’s gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Thank you for the positive response, as usual! School is kicking my ass, so I just jammed this all out in two or three go's so I can feel sated while I try to get the hang of things.  
> Even less editing on this one, sorry, it's pretty dialogue heavy. I'm excited to start the next one, and the one after that, so hopefully that'll lead to some higher quality! THANKS FOR READING XOXO NO FLAMES PLZ!!1!


	4. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.

**Christa 6:03 PM:** just realized we never actually went to go get drive-thru, haha! wanna get some tomorrow? totally just got this new movie and I wanna watch it with you, my friends in the city said it’s superrr good!!! :-)

 

**Christa 6:53 PM:** Ymir?

 

**Christa 7:03 PM:** if you don’t respond I’m gonna make other plans!! :OO

 

**Christa 9:27 PM:** okay, you’re being weird again. if you don’t wanna go just say so!!

 

**Christa 10:46 PM:** ughhh. you’re making me nervous. was what I said too weird? if so, I really am sorry.

 

**Christa 11:17 PM:** okay, I’m gonna give you some space,. please talk to me later, though <3

 

~

“Did you get an invitation for Connie’s party?”

“I better, man. You don’t wanna know what he put me through for getting a wedding present for his aunt.”

Jean nods deftly, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’ve been to a few other parties of his, they’re pretty fun.”

“Yeah?” Ymir’s putting minimum effort into the conversation, preferring to stare out of the mirror. The landscape is red and yellow, the sky a sad grey.

“Reiner passes for twenty-one, so he gets booze. Sasha has no sense of shame and will do any dare. Oh, and Marco bakes the _best_ fucking brownies, holy shit.”

Ymir turns her head toward Jean and furrows her eyebrows. “Marco does pot?”

Almost involuntarily, Jean barks a laugh. “No, definitely not. They’re just really good brownies.” Ymir scoffs. “I’m serious! They’re triple chocolate and he does some magic voodoo shit on them, I swear.”

Usually, Jean can be as aloof and standoffish as Ymir, but when he talks about his best friend he lights up. They’ve been friends for as long as either can remember, and their friendship has never faltered in being anything less than legendary.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I keep telling him he should open a bakery but he wants to go into the military. I tell him he’s going to fuck up and blow himself up, but he’s so goddamn patriotic. He’s a good leader, but I don’t know how good he would be with dealing with death like that.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty rough.”

“You should have seen him the first time a pet of his died. What a fuckin’ loser. Even when I was seven, I knew he was a big dork,” he laughs softly, “I guess I was just sort of mean already-”

“Jean.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re rambling.”

“Oh.” A scarlet blush appears on Jean’s cheeks. “Sorry.”

Ymir nods and looks back out to the window.

“I don’t know. He’s kind of clingy, though. He never does anything without me, you know?”

Ymir groans and reclines her chair so she’s lying down. Jean doesn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

~

The party is two Saturdays before Christmas, and the night is cold and nippy, beyond the point of cute sweater weather and more like putting your tongue on a frozen pole, except your tongue is your body and the pole is everything.

The night so far has been shit. Ymir had had a small fight with her dad, the car had problems getting started, and now she had to somehow maneuver up Connie’s driveway, whose house sat in the highest point in their county. Fuck Connie’s dad and his dairy farm.

It’s a struggle but she finally gets there. Connie lives in a big ranch house, with three floors and an open-floor plan that makes it perfect for parties.

She maneuvers her way through the cars to the front door and when Connie throws it open with a yell of, “YUH-MIR!” the muffled music blasts at her. Her body aches from sleep deprivation and a headache is starting to form and she’s regretting even showing up.

There’s no more than twenty people, draped on couches and on each other, drinking beer and talking casually. Ymir makes eye contact with Annie and looks away immediately.

She skips saying hello and hisses, “Why didn’t you tell me _they_ were here?”

“What, who?” Ymir tilts her head toward where Annie is sitting on a couch, Mikasa perched on the arm. Connie scoffs. “I thought you were over that.”

“The fight was a long time ago but they’re still gay.”

Connie exhales and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how Christa deals with you. Speaking of Christa, have you talked to her? Ever since she got here she’s been pretty quiet and she keep saying she’s fine. You know her best, can you go talk to her?”

A cold breeze passes and Ymir can feel it on her cheeks. “Can I come inside?” Connie steps aside. “Where’s Jean?”

“Did you even hear me?”

Ymir looks down to see Connie staring up with the most disapproving look she’s ever seen on him. Coming from someone who’s so ridiculous all the time, it stings. It burns.

“I, uh…”

“He’s in the kitchen with Reiner and a few others. Have fun.” His tone is cold and clipped. He stares at Ymir for a moment more and then pivots and walks to the living room, sitting next to Sasha. Ymir looks up to see Christa sitting a little bit out of the circle, hunched over herself, face long. When their gazes lock, she raises a hand and smiles weakly.

Ymir nods stiffly and ducks into the kitchen.

~

When she steps through the archway, she catches the tail end of an argument, ending almost immediately with Bert looking at her like a deer caught in headlights and tugging on Reiner’s arm to lead him out the door. Marco follows, glancing at Ymir, trying to smile at her, trying already to apologize, and then the screen door shuts and they’re gone.

Jean is left leaning against the counter. He hasn’t looked nice in days, especially for someone as conceited as him. His hair is unwashed, his gaze his cloudy, he slouches instead of puffing his chest out and holding his head high. He reminds Ymir of a peacock that’s had all its feathers plucked.

“Jean?”

His head whips up, eyes wide like he’s ready to fight, calming when he processes what’s in front of him. “Shit, Ymir. Hey. Sorry.” His head drops back down, gaze set on the tile. His face is placid.

“Don’t worry about it. You okay man?”

His nods are slow and Ymir realizes he’s probably had one too many. “‘M fine. Just got to sit for a while.”

“Need me to go?”

“No, no. No. I…” Jean’s face is screwed up and Ymir feels pity. “Could you talk with me for a while? Just a while?”

“Jean, you know I’m not good at--”

“No one talks to me anymore except for you, even Marco is starting to ignore me.” His face stays pointed toward the ground. “Everyone hates me. Please.”

All his life, Jean has dealt with his problems on his own, bottling everything up and never mentioning it despite sleepless nights, despite a heavy heart and shaking hands. He says it works, he says he feels awful when he tells people things and Ymir has followed by that for years. It’s not heartbreaking to see him life this, it’s more uncomfortable than anything. It’s like a new person has taken over Jean’s body. _Is this what I’m like?_

“Sure. Yeah, of course. What’s on your mind?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Uhh, not sure. Since fifth grade, so six years?”

“Long time.” He heaves himself off the counter and takes a few steps forward, closer to Ymir. “Weird.”

“W-what’s weird?”

“We’ve never done anything. We could have. I’ve thought about it.”

Ymir’s heart skips a beat and she thinks the warm feeling in the pit of her stomach is fondness. She wills it to be.

Her mouth is agape and she tries to make a word come out, to say something funny or flirty or for God’s sake at least a little _straight_ , her mind trips over itself and everything that comes to mind is ridiculous or lame and she feels frozen. Jean isn’t even looking at her, she’s trying to deduce the forlorn look on his face and she wonders what it means. For him. For herself.

She could learn to like Jean. She could learn to laugh at his jokes sincerely and smile at all the right times. She could let him kiss her like it was a job and put a hand up her shirt because that’s where it was supposed to be, she could let him do all those things and then break up and never speak to him again. She could do it.

The silence stretches on instead. Ymir wants to kick herself, she entertains the idea of leaving the kitchen without a word, but Jean looks so alone. Maybe she could step closer too, maybe this would be a good time to--

The side door opens and Marco steps back in. “They left,” he states bluntly, looking at Jean only.

Ymir jumps and takes a step back, hoping it plays off as being spooked by the door suddenly opening. She rinses her thoughts, shaking her head a little before she speaks. “Those two okay?”

“Yeah. Reiner wants to go home, Bert’s driving him. Those two haven’t been too good lately, you know what it’s been like.” She doesn’t.

Jean nods. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Marco steps next to him and leans over to so their faces are close together, so he can speak softly and still look him in the eye. “Don’t beat yourself up. Do you want to go home, too?” Jean shakes his head. They speak with a delicateness that shouldn’t be there, like something is going to break.

There’s a moment where Marco continues to stare and he gently puts his hand on Jean’s arm, about to say something else, when the other boy rips it away and backs up like he’s been burned.

“Jean--”

“Sorry, you -- sorry. I’m going to go outside for a while. You can leave if you want to.”

He strides across the kitchen out through the door and Marco looks hurt. He turns to Ymir, vulnerable, head cocked. Ymir’s hands shake and she panics and doesn’t even bother to say anything, to even make a joke, she just turns around and leaves. She makes a beeline for her car past the living room, not even bothering to spare it a glance.

~

Jean is hunched over on a bench in Connie’s backyard, hand cupped around something in front of his mouth, and the trail of smoke that curls up and away from him gives it away. It’s cold, freezing, but he doesn’t want to go inside. He lets his ears go red and his fingers get so numb they can barely hold the cigarette but he stays outside, letting the cold bite him and the smoke burn his lungs. His eyes are watching something nonexistent.

There’s the creak of the side door opening and Jean flicks the rest of the cigarette on the ground and stomps it out. Eren pretends not to see and stands in front of Jean, arms crossed, sneer apparent.

“So you upset Marco again.” Jean turns away, blocking whatever confrontation is going to happen. Jean doesn’t want to talk, for once, doesn’t want to fight with Jeager, but Eren is relentless and would be screaming in his face if it wasn’t for their friends inside.

“So you’re going to be a coward and not answer me, Kirschtein? Glad you’re so comfortable with making your best friend feel like shit.”

A shuddering sigh leaves Jean and he collects himself slowly, outlandishly, the corner of his lips pulled up by a millimeter. He stands up with a speed uncharacteristic of his usual aloof personality, eyes locking with Eren’s, face bent in anger. His hand makes one long slash in the air and he is screaming in Eren’s face, words like, “Fuck off,” “Leave me alone,” and “None of your business,” clear between the German and French he’s slipping into in the middle of his ire. They fight all the time, the two boys, but it’s never really been this bad. There’s a moment where Eren flinches.

Eren yells back and for a while they’re both screaming at each other in German, Eren pushes and Jean does the same in return, and Eren grabs a fistful of Jean’s shirt with one hand, his other reeled back.

“You’re a fucking asshole-!” and he freezes. The words die in Jean’s throat and there’s a shock of realization when he notices how close Jeager is. How he can feel how his breath pools over his face, how he can see how dilated his pupils are, can hear his own heartbeat. Eren Jeager has never been more human and Jean has never been so present.

Eren notices, he freezes too and his eyebrows furrow now in confusion instead of anger. The muscles around his mouth twitch, his eyes flick down to glance at Jean’s mouth.

Jean closes the gap.

It’s sloppy and frantic, but he holds Eren with one hand on the back of his head and the other cupping his cheek and kisses him, begging, pleading, for him to just go along.

He tries, and it’s so sad, and Eren doesn’t know what to do. He knows Jean wants him to kiss back, but he doesn’t know why.

When Eren doesn’t respond and just stands there, Jean finally breaks away, although he’s still holding Eren, and starts whispering apologies. His head’s on Eren’s chest, one hand’s still around his nape and the other’s holding onto the hem of his shirt. All his words are under his breath, already a secret, already covered up with denial and anger. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry. Please. Don’t tell anyone about this. Fuck. Eren, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” Words rushing out of him a mile a minute, each more groveling than the last.

Eren puts a hand on Jean’s cheek and the boy stops, his gaze returning to the other, mouth open in an “o” of surprise. “Have you been drinking?”

Jean laughs bitterly. “Not enough, not enough.”

Eren’s lips purse and he breathes out through his nose, one eyebrow cocked. “Apparently. Jean, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. You know it’s not.”

“Talk to Marco,” Eren’s voice hasn’t been this soft since Mikasa and Ymir fought, “Let him help you. Don’t be a dick to him. You’re an asshole, Jean, Marco just wants to help you. He’s good with this stuff. Let him. You don’t have to be alone.”

Jean blinks. He looks toward the ground. “Okay. Sorry.”

“For fuck’s sake, stop apologizing. You sound pathetic.”

“Okay.”

Jean looks at Eren in the eye, who looks back, and Jean can say he’s seen Eren at all sorts of levels of intensity but never like this. The fire behind his eyes is not the raging kind that levels cities, but the one that warms houses.

It’s a nice moment, Eren thinks. Maybe he and Jean could be friends after all. Maybe he had just been so confused he took it out on others, Eren knew he’d been there plenty of times. This could be their first step to something friendly.

In the silence Jean blurts, “You’re not my type, Eren.”

“Excuse me--” and they’re back to arguing.

~

Ymir has seen enough. She stumbles into the car, ashamed for watching, ashamed for ever believing she and Jean could have been anything, and slams the door closed and rests her head on the steering wheel. Her breaths are ragged.

Jean was supposed to be on her side, she had felt. In everything, at least he was someone that agreed with her. He wasn't the sort of person that kissed another boy in full view of cars, the sort of person that even  _wanted_ to do that. She rests her head against the steering wheel, her hands ball into fists and she wants to hit him so badly.

Her phone dings and she digs it out.

 

**Bitch Dreyse 10:34 PM:** is ur ass comin to georgetown again or wut

 

**Bitch Dreyse 10:34 PM:** I GOT THAT GOOD LOUD BITCH!!

 

Hitch. Hitch. The shithead she spends her Christmases with in Georgetown instead of paying attention to her family reunion. Hitch, with the cheshire grin and horrible morals. Hitch that exists to offend and likes making people uncomfortable. Hitch is good. Hitch is fine.

She lets her breathing return to normal. Her heartbeat returns to a natural state.

 

**Me 10:42 PM:** you are way too white to be saying that

 

**Bitch Dreyse 10:42 PM:** is that a yesss(:

 

**Me 10:43 PM:** yeah i think we are

 

She ignores the next text (“NICE!!”) and does a three-point-turn to make her way down the driveway. She wants nothing more than to go to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS ACTUALLY A SOAP OPERA FUCK SNK GET THE TELENOVAS ON THE LINE  
> sorry for disappearing for 2 months haha,,, i have been dealing with schools and campaigning and a new relationship so ughhhhh. this is very rough and unedited, so i may go back to it later, but i felt like it had just been toooo long. anyway! here u guys go. i wish you all luck in everything in your lives, I know winter can be tough!! :**


	5. Hitch (Intermission)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir takes some time off with someone who just, you know, gets her.

Ymir thinks about texting Christa sometime during her hours-long drive to Georgetown, but she ignores the urge and naps instead.  
~  
Her extended family is there to greet Ymir and her family when they arrive. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all reaching out with pale arms that contrast against Ymir’s tan ones, with pretty blond hair and blue eyes that matches her father’s, all of the Scandinavian and none of the Iranian that Ymir identifies with.  
At least they know how to vacation, the house is bigger than two barns, Ymir swears to God, with bedrooms upon bedrooms. There’s a pool in the back and acres of woods to traipse around in until it’s time for dinner. Her cousins have their bags already in their delicate grasps, hauling them up the steep driveway that curls around the slope of the hill, and there’s an aunt on Ymir’s periphery that’s complimenting her.  
“You’ve gotten so tall!” she says, “And so pretty! I’m glad you started pulling your hair back from your face, you have the prettiest eyes.”  
Ymir huffs. It wasn’t a cosmetic decision, she did it to work better and not be blind half the time, but whatever. She humors her aunt.  
“‘Course, Auntie Zee. You wouldn’t get off my case about it.”  
She smiles and rubs Ymir on the back. “Get up in there and warm up, your cousins have been dying to see you, and that girl you always hang out with is here, too.”  
Ymir tenses. “Hitch is here?”  
“Yes, yes, she is too. I don’t think your cousins like her too much, though.” It sounded innocent enough but Ymir understood the meaning behind her aunt’s words. She’s always been a master at passive aggression.  
Ymir sighs and fakes a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of her.”  
~  
“So,” says Hitch, perched on Ymir’s bed, “how long you staying?”  
It seems every year Hitch is a new person. Last year she dressed floral dresses, the last in baggy sweaters, one year she even had a phase with 80’s clothes. This year, though, she’s got a wardrobe that Ymir thinks fits her personality the best, dark colors with bright red lipstick, her white-blonde hair chopped off around her jaw. Although, from this angle, her round face and big blue eyes remind her of...she pushes the thought away.  
Ymir shrugs as she stuffs another sweater in a drawer. “Not sure. Maybe the whole break this time.”  
“Whoa,” says Hitch, and Ymir knows she’s smirking and leaning forward, “something at home keeping away?”  
With a sigh, Ymir closes the drawer. “Just missing Georgetown.”  
“Oh, come on,” the blond croons, “bullshit! You’ve got a whole ‘tortured and mysterious,’ vibe right now.”  
“Well, uh, no?”  
Hitch makes a whining noise. “You’re so annoying and closed off, no wonder whoever’s making you want to stay is so pissed off with you.” Ymir cringes infinitesimally. Hitch has always had some weird knack for looking through people, especially when on accident. “Can’t you just talk about your normal life for once?”  
“No,” says Ymir, hard and firm, and moves to open a window. The air here is a little bit more polluted than the air back home and the stars aren’t as clear, but it’s familiar enough.  
“You fucking suck.”  
Ymir plops down on the bed next to Hitch. “I thought we didn’t talk about our personal lives with each other?”  
Hitch lets out a huge, lung-shaking sigh. “I’m still curious though, it’s not like when we were twelve and wanted to be cool and mysterious. Now we actually have lives, you know. With conflicts and shit.”  
“Why the sudden interest?”  
There’s a beat where Hitch raises her eyebrows at Ymir and instead of replying, stands up abruptly enough that she shakes the bed and Ymir has to steady herself with a hand. “Anyway! I’m not going to get anything out of you. It’s late enough that everyone’s asleep.”  
Ymir rolls her eyes. “So we’re going to s--”  
“We’re going to sneak out!” Hitch snaps and winks. “Precisely, Ymir.”  
“Whatever, as long as you have weed.”  
“Absolutely offensive, Ymir,” Hitch deadpans, “acting as if I didn’t have weed. You’re lucky you’re pretty, that brain of yours won’t get you nowhere.”  
Ymir makes a face. “Don’t I know it. C’mon, get your ass up, I want to go back to that spot by the creek.”  
~  
Hitch is a good friend, by Ymir’s standards at least, her impressively low standards. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions (usually, today was weird), she doesn’t take anything seriously, and all she wants to do is make bad decisions. They’re a little high, a little drunk after hanging out by the creek for an hour before deciding to stumble through town.  
And stumble they do, they’re bumping into bushes and signs down main street by the time the clock on Ymir’s phone reads 1:35. Likewise, all the signs read “closed.”  
“Damn,” says Hitch, “so much more fun to do hoodrat shit if there’s a chance people might see you.”  
“Hitch, I have to keep reminding you, you’re fucking white. You can’t say that shit.”  
“And you’re fucking annoying.” She changes topic. “Do you still know how to break into a car?”  
Ymir rolls her eyes. “Breaking in is different from hotwiring. You’re just lucky that all your neighbors are too old to remember to lock anything.”  
“Nah,” says Hitch bitterly, “people are responsible and shit now. Acting like they don’t want me to take a joyride in their shitty Lexus. Fucking delusional.” That makes Ymir laugh. “Like, you can barely tell that I drove it through a cornfield to make crop circles afterwards.”  
“More like crop penises.”  
Hitch hums contentedly. “The corn that grows from where the penis used to be in Mrs. Jackson’s field is still a little greener than the rest.”  
Ymir throws her head back and laughs, eyes scrunching up. When she’s finished, she leans against a railing leading up to a tattoo parlor and they both stop, letting the cool summer night air settle. “Man, sometimes I fucking wish you lived with me in Trost. No one there gets me.”  
Hitch raises an eyebrow. “I guess this has something to do with you spending the entire break here?”  
Ymir shakes her head and groans, running a hand through her hair. “It’s just, they’re putting me through a fucking loop. I’ve told you about Annie and Mikasa right?”  
“Yeah, bitchy and bitchier. I fucking love them.”  
“Well, they’re gay. No, I’m serious, they’ve been screwing each other for who knows how fucking long! And Jean, you know Jean, I think he came up here once too when his family had to go to a funeral during break.”  
“What, undercut and H&M wardrobe? He’s gay too?”  
She rolls her eyes. “Everyone! Fucking insane.”  
They stand in silence for a while before Hitch whispers, almost amusedly, “Man, Ymir, you’re fucking stupid.”  
Hitch is leaning back on the rail now, head tilted up toward the night sky so a sliver of her neck is illuminated by the moon. Her words travel up into the night.  
“Excuse me?”  
“You’re just stupid. Let’s go back.” She shifts so she’s standing straight and tugs on Ymir’s sleeve. “C’mon.”  
Ymir doesn’t move. “Did I say something?”  
“Nothing you’ve never said before. Let’s get going. If we don’t we won’t get back in time before people start waking up.”  
It’s weird, Hitch has never been the one to make sure they get back in time. There’s none of that familiarity in the air that used to be in there, just some weird finality that Ymir knows means they won’t talk for the entire walk back. The air’s a solid force now, separating them like a steel wall, that Ymir has learned the hard way only is relieved with time.  
She’s used to fighting, but now she just lets Hitch’s tugs get the better of her. “Yeah, okay.” She walks.  
~  
She dreams of Christa again and Ymir’s tan hands on her hips. Christa rolls her hips once and Ymir wakes up.  
~  
Around noon Ymir is eating lunch at the kid’s table (trying very hard to avoid the goings-on of the toddlers around her) and scrolling through her phone when she gets a text.

Jean 12:11 PM: Miss you.

Ymir looks at the message for a few more seconds before shoving the last spoonful of mac and cheese in her mouth and standing up to wash off the plate. When she’s done, she takes the phone and shoves it into her pocket, now out of sight and out of mind, and strides to the living room to put out her jacket and her boots. She slips out into the winter sun before anyone notices her.  
~  
Hitch meets Ymir by the creek not too long after, footsteps audible before she’s visible. Her hair’s unbrushed and there’s bags under her eyes, but nothing completely out of the ordinary. When Ymir nods at her she gives the smallest nod back.  
“You okay?” Ymir asks, more out of politeness than concern.  
Hitch shrugs. She sits down on a rock and leans over until her chest is against her knees and she can flatten her palms out on the ground. The creek really is gorgeous, especially with the untouched snow that makes everything dazzle, and Hitch looks like a cancerous black lump on the landscape.  
“Yes. No. I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you.”  
“What do you mean?”  
There’s a moment of silence where Hitch grabs at the patches of dirt and snow on the ground before straightening up with the stuff in her hands. She smushes it together and throws it away, hands now caked in wet dirt. “Dunno. What’s wrong with you?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“We only ever hang out at night, something’s up.”  
Ymir’s hands itch for something like a cigarette even though she’s never smoked one in her life. “Why should I tell you if you won’t tell me?”  
Hitch mumbles something and stands up. She claps her hands together to shake off the dirt and looks up at Ymir from her hunched position. “Why don’t you text me when you’re in Trost?” Ymir can only blink. “When you go back, why don’t I exist for you anymore?”  
“I-i’m just busy--”  
“Yeah. Okay. You said you wished I lived in Trost, yeah?”  
“Last night?”  
“Yeah, last fucking night. Did you mean that?”  
Ymir straightens from where she’s leaning on a tree and lets a long breath escape her. “Sorry, did I do something?”  
A low growl emanates from Hitch and that’s...that’s new. “What haven’t you fucking done, Ymir? Huh? You’ve done all this shit and I’m not even allowed to be mad at you because you don’t even fucking know you did it.”  
Ymir sneers. “So you can’t expect me to be all that fucking remorseful about doing something you never told me you didn’t like.”  
Hitch’s hands tighten into fists. “I’m telling you now! I’m telling you now.”  
“Telling me what?”  
The muscles in Hitch’s jaw tightens and she looks down at the ground when she says, “Tell me why you won’t go back to Trost. Don’t fucking lie.”  
“It’s none of your--”  
Hitch takes an aggressive step forward. “Bullshit! Your life is my business whether you like it or not, we’ve known each other too long! We might not spend that much time together but I knew you when you cried over everything and you had both your parents, that’s a different level of knowing someone. That’s spiritual and shit.”  
Hitch’s face is twisted up and Ymir’s not sure what’s she’s trying to hold back; anger, pain, maybe both or something else or nothing at all. If Hitch is so sure she knows Ymir this well, then, that’s a surprise, considering Ymir doesn’t know Hitch at all.  
“It’s-” Ymir starts and something, maybe the fact that this is the first time Hitch has been so open to her, or maybe it’s just something internal, a dam that can’t take anymore, something makes her blurt out, “I’ve been thinking about this girl.”  
Suddenly, all the fight leaves Hitch. “Like, romantically?” Ymir doesn’t have the bravery to say anything, so she just nods. “Fuck.”  
Hitch starts laughing.  
High-pitched and obnoxious, tears forming in the corner of her eye. “You dumb homophobic, piece of shit. God. You like girls. You’re a fucking queer. It’s too fucking good.”  
“What?” There’s some alarm going off in Ymir, all the muscles in her stomach are tightening up, she can feel her throat closing up in preparation for a sob, “What is it?”  
Hitch keeps laughing, wipes at her eyes, and squeezes out between laughs, “Man, too good.”  
~  
Jean 11:43 PM: Christa misses you too.  
~  
Ymir’s already a little tipsy the next time she sees Hitch, which, arguably, is likely not the most desirable situation, but whatever. They’re not at the creek or on main street, but rather, on a dock waiting for any boats arriving on the frozen lake. Ymir’s been sitting there for an hour already, legs hanging over the edge, just thinking, when Hitch sits down next to her.  
There’s no introduction, just, “I had a crush on you for the longest time. Not anymore, that’s just lust, but.” It’s been a few days since the creek, which Ymir has mostly spent trying to put on a good show for her family and ignoring Jean’s weird melancholy texts (“Reiner asked about you.” “Marco thinks you should call us.” “Connie wants you to know the wedding present went well.” Like, for fuck’s sake, dude, okay). The sky is a dark purple now, Venus and the moon the lone points of light in the sky.  
Ymir nods. “Sometimes you remind me of the girl I like. You’re blond, opinionated, curse a lot. Totally different otherwise.”  
“How?”  
“Well, you’re an asshole. For one.”  
Hitch barks a laugh. “For one?”  
Ymir can’t help but smirk. “Yeah. Lust?”  
A high-pitched squeak comes suddenly from Hitch and Ymir grins when she realizes Hitch had probably not meant to mention that part. “Uh, fuck. Well. That’s on the table now, if you’re interested.”  
Ymir sighs and smiles. “Thanks, bud, but I’ll pass.”  
“Ah,” Hitch throws herself backwards so she’s lying down, “can’t blame me for trying.”  
They watch the sky turn darker and when the last rays of sun disappear and the only thing that’s helping Ymir determine where anything is are the distant lampposts back on the shore, she sniffs. She’s not sure where it’s coming from, but a wave of sadness hits her like a truck and it’s bleeding out of her slow and steady. A sob rips itself from her and she starts crying, in earnest.  
Hitch sits up and puts a hand on her back. “Why do you do this shit to yourself?” Her voice is shaky and Ymir can tell she’s just as uncomfortable, just as at a loss for what to do as Ymir is. Ymir can’t remember the last time Hitch has consoled someone genuinely. She’s half-expecting her to stand up and kick her and run away laughing while Ymir’s still down.  
Ymir shakes her head and whispers, “I don’t know.”  
A few seconds pass while Hitch tries to make up her mind and she whispers back, “I think you get off on it. I’m not trying to be a bitch, I swear, but.” She pauses again. “You have to stop living with hurt as a foundation for everything.”  
Ymir nods, lifts a hand to wipe her eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Yeah.”  
There’s more stars, now, she notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO HEY YALL it's been months n months n literally buttloads of homework but im updating!! wish it could be better haha this is soooo dialogue heavy but im excited to post and also got a little bored w/o christa. i promise ill be writing more now! things have been CRAZY but! everything's calming down and i literally have so much time. sorry if anything's ooc the manga got too convoluted to follow and its been a while since i watched the anime, but, u know what, its fanfic. anyway!  
> i hope y'all had a good fall/winter/spring and school went/is going well for everybody. also, thank you so much for 100 kudos??? like?????? WOW????????????  
> also a lot of people have been commenting on the fact that i made ymir homophobic and i just wanted to explain why i wrote it rly quick: i wanted a personal journey which reflected ymir's coming to terms w being a titan in the source material AND every gay ship needs a "one of us is a queer with internalized homophobia and therefore will have to undergo a painful journey including breakdowns and fights before they come to terms with it" fic. so!  
> thanks for reading (and waiting if you have been) :-)


	6. Armin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ymir has never felt so antagonized by donuts.

Ymir has written a text back to Jean, completely rendered, only to erase the entire thing and put her phone back in her pocket she can’t even remember how many times. She wrote one after coming inside from talking to Hitch, she wrote one Christmas morning before opening gifts, she wrote one the day she had to say goodbye to her family and Hitch.  
She’s in the family car, stretched out in the backseat while her father drives and the boy on the radio croons about faraway places and the girl he wants to see them with when she finally presses send.

Ymir 9:45 AM: Cheesy. Driving back now  
~  
School starts the first Monday while Ymir’s back, but she’s too tired from her car ride so she plays hooky and goes the next day. She doesn’t talk to many people, or make eye contact with them for that matter, but at least for once she has no distractions and is truly paying attention in her classes.  
She sees Christa in the halls once or twice but she’s far enough away for Ymir to pretend like she hasn’t seen her. Her hair is collected in a little messy bun and she’s painted her face with makeup that’s soft pink. Another time, Ymir reasons. When she’s a bit more collected, she excuses. I’m screwed, she admits.  
~  
Professor Levi shakes the mug of popsicle sticks, mixing them up until he’s satisfied. “Remember, no trading,” he repeats and the class groans.  
“Why don’t you trust us to be responsible and choose our own partners?” whines Sasha and the Professor’s eyebrow raises an incredible inch.  
“Of course, Ms. Braus, what am I thinking? I’m sure you and Springer would do an excellent job.”  
“Is that sarcasm I detect, sir?” says Connie in a shitty British accent.  
Sasha hums and says in an equally as awful accent, “Yes, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use _sarcasm_ , Professor.”  
“ _Very_ unlike you.”  
“Quiet or you’re both going without partners and doing the entire thing by yourselves.” They shut up. “Good thinking. Now, first is..,” he picks out two popsicles from the cup and reads the names written on them, “Eren and Marco. Annie and Bertholdt. Ymir and -- shit,” he drops the second popsicle and bends down quickly to pick it up. Ymir’s fist clenches tighter and prays to any God that’ll listen that Mikasa’s name isn’t written on it.  
“Ymir and Armin.”  
She feels her spine metaphorically slide out of her ass. This might actually be worse. This is the combined wrath of Eren and Mikasa plus the inherent sense of helplessness Armin Arlert exists with, this is two fucking lions protecting their angelic, blond cub. Ymir diverts her attention to her hands to ignore their stares penetrating her.  
“Next is Sasha and -- are you fucking kidding me.”  
Connie snorts and leans forward, making grabby hands at the stick, “Oh my God, is it me?”  
“Language, Professor!” chides Sasha.  
He snaps both of the sticks in his hand and mumbles “I’m fucking retiring.”  
~  
Ymir’s sitting in the far corner of the library when Armin enters, his laptop bag in tow, and she tries her hardest not to make eye contact as he makes his way over. She hadn’t ever really been close to Armin, but they had their moments. They used to play video games together when they were younger, and before everything turned to shit Ymir had driven Armin around places in exchange for tutor time. She shakes her head to forget the little jabs at Ymir’s driving Armin used to make, the little comments like, “If I tutored like you drove, I think you’d be getting lower grades than you already are!”  
Armin was a ray of sunshine kind of person, and Ymir had always cast shadows.  
He sits down wordlessly, across from Ymir, and pulls out his laptop. His voice is robotic when he says, “So, I was thinking of doing a powerpoint.”  
Ymir stutters out, “O-okay.”  
“On the geographical symbolism,” he keeps his head ducked and face expressionless, and considering it’s Armin, it’s not just creepy but heartbreaking, too. “I’m gonna need you to find evidence in the text.” He then leans over again to pull out a copy of their book and slides it over. “That fine?”  
She swallows. “Yeah, no problem.”  
“Okay.” There’s a few seconds while Armin waits for his laptop to boot up and they sit together, silence thick enough to cut, and Ymir feels like there’s a golf ball in her throat. Mikasa, Annie, and Eren being pissed at her is one thing. They’re pissed at everything, they react to the world like it’s on fire and there’s no way to put it out. Armin, on the other hand. Armin’s water. Water doesn’t burn, but his silence sure does.  
The silence is broken when Armin mumbles, “She misses you, you know,” and Ymir thinks he means MIkasa until he adds, “Christa won’t say anything, but she does.”  
“Oh,” is all Ymir can say.  
“Why did you stop talking to her?”  
Ymir opens the book and sighs. “Let’s just do the project. What do you want me to do?”  
Armin looks at Ymir for the first time in months, direct eye contact, and he’s got a face like he’s just smelled something particularly nasty. “You don’t have to tell me, or even start talking to her again, but she deserves an answer.”  
“I know,” Ymir’s too thrown off guard to say much more, or even break eye contact.  
“So why haven’t you?”  
“Just...going through shit. Lots of shit.”  
“Well,” Armin says through pursed lips, “get your shit together.”  
~  
Ymir sees Christa in the halls the next day, a fleeting thing. They’re passing each other when Christa offers a weak smile and a raised hand in greeting and Ymir short-circuits and looks away.  
Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
~  
The next time they meet is in Armin’s house. When Ymir knocks on the door in two, hesitant taps, it opens by the time Ymir has brought her hand back down to her side.  
“Hey,” he says breathlessly, like he’s been running around, “perfect timing. Come in, it’s freezing.”  
She does so, stomping first on the welcome mat to shake off snow and is careful to not spread around what she couldn’t get off her boots as she takes them off in the mudroom. Armin watches patiently then waves her over to the kitchen where he’s got a box of munchkins and two coffees from Dunkin’ Donuts. Ymir furrows her eyebrows and looks warily at Armin. “What’s this?”  
He hides his face as he slides into his seat at the table, across from Ymir. “Look, I know things are tense, but we’ve got to act civil, at least for the project.”  
“So donut holes and coffee is your olive branch?” she asks as she plops into her own seat.  
He blushes and looks down, eyes averted. “You used to get me Dunkin’ whenever I had a bad day. I’m just returning the favor.”  
“You remember that?” She’s met with silence and takes it as a cue to take a seat. She leans back, scratching at her neck, and says “Uh, Armin, it’s cool, don’t worry about it, we can just--”  
“It’s not cool, actually.” He looks up and his glare is a determined one, a challenging look that’s usually only on his face when he’s debating. He pushes a coffee to Ymir, “You’re affecting my friends.”  
“So I don’t get a say about this?”  
Armin scoffs like the idea is ridiculous. “Nope. What happened? Christa says things had been going really well.”  
“She did?”  
He rolls his eyes. “You’re as thick as Eren. Obviously. You were the first person she tried to make friends with, everyone else initiated their friendships.”  
“I...didn’t know.”  
Armin sips his coffee with a raised eyebrow. “Now you do.”  
Ymir stares at her coffee, and then her hands, and then Armin. “Has she been upset?”  
“Well, most people don’t have their friends start ignoring them for no reason.”  
She chuckles bitterly. “Most people don’t have friends as flaky as I am, either.”  
Armin tsks at that and goes to open the box of munchkins. “See, that’s your problem. The whole self-deprecation thing. You’ve been projecting that for as long as I know.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“Uh, projecting, it’s like a psychological term--”  
“I know what the fuck it means, Armin.”  
He pauses with a munchkin halfway to his mouth, eyes squinted in some kind of judgement. “Well, you’re doing it. And it’s got to stop.”  
She scoffs and leans back, arms crossed. “And how do you expect me to do that, Dr. Arlert?”  
“Please, Dr. Arlert’s too formal, Mr. Arlet is fine,” Armin jokes, the corner of his lips raising in the faintest of smiles, and Ymir feels herself smile, too, despite her irritation, “You could start by just apologizing? Christa’s kind. She’ll forgive you.”  
Ymir sighs and reaches for the coffee, taking a sip. “God, I hope so.”  
~  
Ymir: Hey, Christa. I know it’s been a while, but I’ve

No, wrong. Way too casual. Delete.

Ymir: I wanna start by apologizing, I know I’ve been a horrible person

She might be remorseful, but she’s not fucking pathetic. Delete.

Ymir: Guess who’s got two thumbs and has been acting like a total asshole? This fucker!!

Sigh.  
~  
Armin welcomes her in the next day with the same order sitting on the table as before, and this time, there’s no time for feelings.  
He sits down and says simply, “Every day you go without making up with Christa, you pay for the food.”  
Ymir scrunches her face up. “This isn’t exactly a feast, Armin. That’s not much of an incentive.”  
He holds up a finger. “Everyday I’m making it more expensive.”  
By the time the week is over, Armin’s cabinets are filled with boxes of donuts going stale and Ymir watches in horror as the receipt he hands her each time gets longer and longer.  
~  
Ymir likes to think the voice which speaks to her to finally text Christa is coming somewhere from her wallet. Like a little relationship fairy that feeds off of the traces of cocaine and hooker body glitter that exists on dollar bills.

Ymir 6:02 PM: Hey, Christa. I’m really sorry about how I’ve been acting, and I think you deserve an answer. If I haven’t completely pissed you off, do you wanna hang out sometime soon so we can talk? I miss you.

She sits, staring at the phone for a while, and when it’s apparent that her glare isn’t enough to magically make a text appear, she stands up and starts pacing. She heads to the kitchen, rummages through the refrigerator until she realizes she’s not hungry, instead heads to the TV and channel surfs but can’t pick on anything because she’s too wired, so she stands up again and paces. When her legs start to ache she finds her bookbag and tries to work on the slides that Armin said he didn’t have time for, but after a while the notes he wrote up start blurring together and Ymir realizes she’s been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes. She’s about to start doing push-ups when her phone dings. On her rush to get to it, she vaults over the ottoman and grabs at the phone on the side table in one movement, crash-landing onto the couch.

Christa 7:35 PM: yeah. yeah i really would.

Ymir feels butterflies in her entire body, from her stomach to her heart, and she buries her face in the cushion, ignoring how stupid she feels about it.  
~  
Christa’s face is a picture in the car’s frame, peeking into the space left by the rolled down window. She looks like she did the day Ymir taught her how to drive, the sunlight hits her cheekbones, lights her eyes on fire, brings out faint little freckles Ymir hasn’t noticed.  
God.  
“So, can I come in?”  
Ymir hadn’t realized she had been staring and scrambles to unlock the door, avoiding Christa’s gaze. The blonde sits inside neatly, stuffs her bag by her feet. She closes the door with barely a thud and clicks the seatbelt into place, shuffling around to find the lever under her seat to bring herself forward.  
When she finishes, there’s only the hum of the engine left and the distant voices of the other students. Christa coughs and mumbles, “It’s...nice to see you again.”  
Ymir swallows and tries to look Christa in her eyes and remembers they’re the bluest things she’s ever seen. She knew she was in deep, but she forgot she was Mariana Trench deep. “You too. It’s, uh, been long.”  
Christa snorts. “Your fault.”  
The honestly is a little surprising, but Ymir’s thankful for it. “Yeah, it is.”  
~  
Ymir orders a blockbuster horror movie on demand, a sequel that’s bound to follow the same plot as its predecessor, and they sit on the same couch they always had. With substantially more room between them. And awkwardness, much more awkwardness, too.  
The entire drive, to the drive-thru and to the house, both had remained in virtual silence. It’s eating at Ymir, all she wants to do is slip into their same easy rapport, but every time she looks at Christa she’s hit with a mix of guilt and uncomfortable attraction.  
But she has to say something, at least before the movie starts. She says, “So--” just as Christa blurts, “I was thinking--”  
They stare at each other and a nervous, breathy laugh escapes them both.  
“You first,” says Christa.  
Ymir nods and stares at her hands clasped in her lap. “Uh. I just wanted to say, I’m. I’m sorry. For, uh, ignoring you. It wasn’t right. I’ll tell you why soon enough, but it’s personal. And I was really struggling with myself for a while. And, uh. Just. A lot of things, not just you, was making all that confusion even worse.”  
Christa hums. “Thanks. I don’t know how soon it’ll be until I forgive you, but I do want to be friends with you again.”  
“T-thanks,” Ymir mumbles and she can feel her cheeks heating up.  
There’s a moment of silence and Ymir’s about to press play until she hears Christa mumble, “Although…”  
Ymir glances at her sideways.  
“I don’t really think I could stay mad at you.”  
Ymir huffs and looks away, trying to hide her smile as she starts the movie.  
~  
Armin walks Ymir to the kitchen the next day with a receipt that he slaps onto the table with a sort of finality. “Ymir,” he says gravely, “if you keep this up--”  
Ymir doesn’t bother looking up from her bag that she’s rummaging around in. “We made up.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I can show you the texts.” She looks up with a shit-eating grin. “We’re totally friends again.”  
Armin’s wide-eyed and silent, staring in horror, hand twitching around the receipt. He drops down slowly into his seat, thousand-yard-stare fixed somewhere over Ymir’s shoulder. “Ymir...this is seventy dollars worth of plastic GMO donuts.”  
Ymir scoffs. “Your problem, buddy -- wait. You were going to make me pay seventy fucking dollars?”  
“Well..!”  
“That’s fucking karma for you, buddy.”  
Armin mumbles something and leans back, arms folded. “I’d be more happy if I didn’t have to somehow figure out how to explain seventy dollars of donuts and bitter coffee to my grandfather.”  
Ymir sniggers and starts to pull out her work papers, sliding them in front of Armin as she sits down across him. They’re almost done, a few days in advance, and Ymir’s sure they’ve got a perfect score in the bag. Just some polishing on their oral presentation and they’ll be done. Ymir won’t admit it, but she’s proud of herself, even if Armin did most of the work.  
“What made you do it?” says Armin.  
“I’d like to think my wallet was probably reason enough.”  
Armin rolls his eyes and shifts forward so he’s got his elbows on his table, his right hand holding onto the soft skin of his upper left arm. “I mean...you know. Like, if you didn’t care, you would’ve just told me to fuck off and not even have gone with the whole thing.”  
His eyes are big and searching and it’s this moment when Ymir gets a little bit why everyone always compares him to Christa beyond their blond hair and blue eyes. They’ve both got the kind of stare that claws at you, red and raw.  
Ymir clears her throat and looks sideways, suddenly feeling much more tired than she had a second ago. “Shit happened, Armin. I figured out some stuff. I realized I wanted to be with her.”  
Armin nods, slowly, gears working slowly in his head until they click and he looks up with a puzzled expression. “Sorry, but like..?”  
She shuffles nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, like that.”  
“Oh. _Oh._ Wow. Okay.”  
Ymir raises her eyebrows, letting out a long sigh. She’d heard that confessing things was supposed to make you feel better, but she feels more like she’s got veins full of lead.  
“Man. I won’t tell anyone, but wow. Internalization sucks, huh?”  
Ymir smiles bitterly and looks away. “It’s a bitch, Armin, you’ve got that right.”  
“How long have you been, like...sure? If that’s okay to ask,” he tacks on hurriedly.  
Ymir runs a hand over her face and moans. “I don’t know, I was in denial. Obviously. Still am? Fuck, Armin, I’m so scared. I mean, I can’t even believe I’m telling you.”  
Armin stands up then, scraping his chair back and walking to peek out past the archway of his kitchen, presumably to see if his grandfather is in earshot. He turns back around then to an expectant Ymir and gives her a soft smile. “Ymir, a lot more of us than you’d expect are queer.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I mean, I’m not surprised, a lot of queer kids find other queer kids to be friends before they even realize they’re queer, you know? I mean, I’ve always wondered how you managed to find your way into our friend group, anyway.”  
Ymir’s face twists into confusion. “Are you saying you always thought I was gay?”  
Armin gives a sheepish smile. “Maybe bi or something else. Uh.”  
“Wait -- are you saying you’re gay?”  
Armin coughs into his hand. “Well.”  
Ymir groans and falls forward onto the table, her forehead thudding against the wood.  
~  
The next time they hang out, Christa’s a load more cheerful than the last, hopping into Ymir’s car more than getting in.  
“What’s gotten into you?” Ymir asks with a chuckle and the blond shrugs.  
“I just feel good, you know? Feel awake.”  
Ymir lets herself smile and Christa beams back. “You sure do. You wanted to go to the drive-in, right?”  
“Yeah, the one in Hyde Park.”  
Ymir shifts into drive and drives the both of them out of the parking lot, taking care to kick up the heater since she knows Christa gets cold easily. “Maybe we can stop by the library of that old lady or something. Louise something-or-other.”  
“Eleanor Roosevelt, Ymir. I know you’re just pretending to forget who she is because you want to piss me off.”  
Ymir laughs. “You know me so well, Christa.”  
Christa mumbles, “Damn right. Bye the way, guess who totally hooked you up with your one and true love.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a little white bag with munchkins, with the Dunkin’ label on the side. “I made Reiner go and get them during his lunch,” she adds with a smirk.  
Ymir tries to smile, or look even remotely pleased, but it must come off as constipated by the way Christa furrows her eyebrows. “Or, uh, did I misjudge your love of donuts?”  
Ymir grimaces. “It’s a long story, but to make it short, I’ve had enough Dunkin’ in the past two weeks to feed a small village for a year.”  
“So no Dunkin’?” Ymir shakes her head and Christa shrugs. “More for me, loser.” She kicks her feet up onto the dashboard and reaches for a donut, leaning over for a second to change the radio station to something with pop music, and Ymir thinks that maybe things really will be fine between them. Christa’s got her lips quirked up in a sweet little smile, eyes squinted faintly against the winter sun, and yeah, they will. Ymir’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME Y'ALL i wrote this chapter once and hated it and had to write it again. woe is me. but it's here now!  
> disclaimer: i hate dunkin' donuts and in no way am i trying to, like, endorse them??, but there is nothing so integral to the upstate new york experience as dunkin', i swear, and i never said ymir was a woman of taste  
> also, hyde park is a real place! FDR's old home is there which includes Eleanor's library and pretty much down the street is a drive-in theater and a roller rink. it's awesome  
> other thoughts: if i made a tumblr would any of you guys follow it? im not comfortable linking to ao3 on my current one since people i know irl follow it, but i'd like somewhere to post smaller things i write so i dont disappear for, like, months with no explanation. idk?? ignore me  
> HOPE EVERYONE'S GOT A GOOD SUMMER AHEAD OF THEM :-))


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